Breath of a snake
by terfle
Summary: An alternate ending to Snape's horizon. What if he had lived?


**Suspend your imagination and consider the possibility that Snape outwits even Voldemort. Nobody notices he is gone or cares where he is.**

Water dripped off the dank walls of the cave and he caught them with a tip of his knarled finger. Outside the rain poured down incessantly trying to drown out his heart, the one that beat so pitifully. He played with the translucent drops, his pale fingers seeming to weep at the weather and the world. He had done as Albus had asked him, hadn't he, but at the last minute fought to save himself. He reasoned with himself that he just couldn't let go of this life. Potter had killed the Dark Lord and lived to tell the tale, the fear had lifted and people could now live. He had promised Albus he would take care of the boy and guide him to his mission but at the back of his mind he truly wanted to live. He wasn't like Bellatrix, wholeheartedly and insanely committing herself to the Dark Lord, he had no family to go back to unlike Draco Malfoy but yet he still felt the desire to live. In the serenity of this cool space where he couldn't see his face, could only trace his features if he so wished, lack of material comfort didn't faze him. The only change in his appearance was a simple black scarf, swiped from a washing line as he made his slow and painful way to the nearest dark shelter he could find. He'd frantically knitted the wound together with a silent spell just before he lost consciousness but couldn't disguise the ugly scar it left, wending its angry way across his neck and throat. The scarf was the only thing shielding it from the open air and curious eyes. Not that he ever saw anyone around this barren wasteland. Snape was used to the rhythm and beauty of careful measurements, soft smoke and smooth concoctions in his potion lab, now he was reduced to watching raindrops falling on his feet with a mangled neck kept under wraps.

He did it all for Lily. That damned boy had her eyes but he was nothing like Lily. Nobody could be like her. Night after night he did as he had done for years before, remembering the way her hair swished across her robes and down her back, those sparkling eyes and her voice. He longed to hear that voice again, in real life, her standing before him. He would have done anything for her, killed for her. But her boy, he couldn't quite bring himself to do the same for, not in person. Not if he could help it. What would she have thought of him, what he had turned out to be? He knew what look would materialise on her face before he could picture it, that particular disgust that had pinched her face, made it hard and unforgiving. That shame of being a Slytherin and sticking to it. He would have given all of that up just to have kept her near. He longed for her, yearned to see her and thought maybe he would if he had died. But he couldn't see her when he slipped into that black hue, he couldn't see her face in front of him. That alone was to make him realise how he needed to keep alive. He would rather live for eternity with his memories of her than die and find out that she was nowhere to be found.

Slowly he unwrapped the scarf, eyes adjusting in the gloom. He couldn't see it but it lay under his robes like the serpent itself. Sometimes he would wake up with a feeling that it was alive and trying to strangle him, a burning sensation across his neck, glowing eyes flashing behind his eyelids. He'd wake up screaming and shaking to find himself alone in the dark. He'd splash water from the puddle all over his face and neck, wanting to cleanse himself from this never-ending pain but so far he'd never touched it. Not properly. He had no mirror and refused to look in the puddle for the distortion he knew was there. Every day he thought he would but never did. Without thinking about it, the thought crept into his head. Today was that day. The longer he dreaded it and put it off, the more monstrous it would seem another day.

Warily he tipped his face up to the last of the fading light and closed his eyes. He lowered a hand to his neck, seeking out the jagged ridges that had once never existed. Gently he explored. A ghostly forefinger shivered lightly over the torn edges of delicate skin. There was no pattern to it, just slashes at random. He realised his breath was quickening and held it instead, not wanting the scars to defeat his nerves. Carefully he continued, releasing long breaths when he could, willing the ordeal to be over so he could try to forget about it again. At times in the day he could almost do that. At night, it was impossible. He'd always flinched from it but today he understood that he was now ready to face the destruction done to his body. His fingers lightly glided from the uneven puckers and hollows and suddenly he was breathing normally again. Relief flooded over him like a drink of fresh water. Had he imagined the burning snake clasped around his neck all this time? The slashed skin would always be visible but it felt like nothing that could unsettle him anymore. Opening his eyes to the approaching dusk, he suddenly felt lighter. Some shadow had lifted from him.

One day he would move on from this place but for now, he had his wand and his woes to contend with. That misery kept him immune to most other things. Perhaps even death.


End file.
